


First Half

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [18]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-17
Updated: 2004-11-17
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	First Half

Though there might be more delightful sensations than this, Jack Sparrow was for the moment content to leave them unexplored and even unimagined, and instead to give himself up to the wholly delicious sensations -- a sensation, it seemed, for each of his five subtle senses, and several new ones that he'd never suspected in himself -- that Jack Shaftoe was evoking in every atom, or monad, of his body; **Sight** , of course, was amply rewarded by the smooth curve of Shaftoe's shoulder, the old white lines of various floggings, whippings and other punishments making a lacy web across the sun-tanned skin, and the sandy-gold fall of Shaftoe's hair, loosened from its usual queue by Jack Sparrow's inquisitive fingers and sticking to his sweaty skin, and Jack Shaftoe's blue, blue eye, the colour of summer afternoons, staring deeply into Jack's own, and while Jack Sparrow knew with one portion of his mind that an eye was merely a collation of slippery jellies, he knew on a deeper level that Shaftoe's eye held affection, and desire, and humour, and perhaps even _love_ ; and then there was the provocative curve of Jack Shaftoe's mouth, just at the edge of Jack's vision, surrounded by soft golden stubble, lips still red from where Jack had bitten and kissed them; which led him inevitably to **Taste** , for the taste of Jack Shaftoe's mouth -- Jack reminded himself of it with a slow, deep kiss -- was sour and salty, redolent of rum, semen and the sweat he'd so assiduously licked from Jack's own skin; Jack loved it, the taste of himself transmuted by Shaftoe's clever wicked mouth, and the taste of Jack Shaftoe's seed on the hand he now pushed up between them, so that he could swipe his tongue across it and taste the final traces of Shaftoe's previous climax, so distinctively Shaftoe, sharper and more bitter than Jack's own; and, taste being so very snugly allied with **Smell** , the taste of Shaftoe's kiss became intermingled with the smell of that hand, and the damp, sweat-soaked, semen-sticky linen on which they lay, and the glorious spice of Jack Shaftoe's salt sweat, straight from the source beneath his arm, a scent that made Jack's cock, still tender from that reckless race to their shared climax, twitch and swell feebly against Jack Shaftoe's muscled hip, and _that_ made Shaftoe chuckle, deep and warm and fond, and murmur, "Well, Jack, I thought you quite _spent_ , but I'm more than happy to find that you've life in you yet," and Shaftoe's voice, all musical with the rhythms of the places he'd been and the tongues (ooooh, Jack Shaftoe's most admirable tongue, thought Jack distractedly) he spoke, was all that Jack wanted for **Sound** , that and the homely lapping of ocean against the hull of his lovely _Pearl_ all around them, and the cries of sea-birds from somewhere above, and the creak of the cot-chains as they protested the combined weight of the two of 'em -- must get old Stone to have a look at the beam, there, and see if it needed reinforcement -- and the regular, calming rise and fall of Jack Shaftoe's breath, though he was seldom silent for long; and now he writhed against Jack, pushing his unjustly-mutilated member (hardening again already) against Jack's own, and whispered, "Oh, Christ, Jack Sparrow: I want you, want to have you, want to fuck you _properly_ ..." to which Jack, helpless against the surge of lust that went through him at the thought of being comprehensively fucked, hard and fast and relentless and irresistible, by Jack Shaftoe, said, "Oh God, Jack, don't, don't, you know I want you any way, every way -- " and then Shaftoe was biting Jack's lip (Jack made an indignant noise) to stop him speaking, and pushing what was left of his cock against Jack's balls, and his clever thieving fingers were stealing back, probing, prodding, resting against Jack's tender arsehole, and Jack Shaftoe was murmuring in Jack's ear (all warm moist breath and wicked teasing tongue, so _that_ for **Touch** ) "Go on, Jack, say you'll let me, say you'll let me try, _please_ let me;" and there was such anguish, imperfectly disguised, and such want entirely _un_ disguised, in Shaftoe's voice that Jack could not resist -- though the thought of being half-fucked made him want to bellow in rage at the cruelty of Fate that'd deprived him of Jack Shaftoe whole and eager and huge, and left him with this half-measure -- and he spread his legs wider, wriggling against Shaftoe's quick fingers, eager to be opened and stretched and touched, wanting to give Shaftoe everything that was in his power to give; and if his climax was half a climax, if his pleasure was a fraction of what it should be, still it'd be shared with Jack Shaftoe, still it'd be so much more than all those quick easy empty fucks with strangers, friends and foes, pretty whores and forceful sailors; this was _Jack Shaftoe_ , and Jack's sense of **Touch** was quite in love with him already for the improbably escalated effect he had on every part of Jack's sensitised body; and Shaftoe's long, agile fingers, all greasy now, were pushing into, pulling out of, pushing into him, fucking him already, stretching him almost too hastily (though Jack welcomed the ache and the burn, because _Shaftoe_ ) and meanwhile Shaftoe's mouth was on Jack's own, biting and licking and pressing their lips hard together, and Jack's hand, all wet with saliva and seed and sweat, was tight round Shaftoe's demi-member, pumping hard, feeling the hot swell and throb of it against his palm and yes, yes, he wanted that in him, no matter that it was not and would never be fair, or enough, or too much; he was moaning and writhing against Shaftoe's mouth, and onto Shaftoe's busy fingers, _four_ of 'em, nearly too much, nearly enough, and his knees bent up to let Jack Shaftoe lie close against him, all harsh-breathed and wide-eyed and heart pounding like a hammer (or was that Jack's own?) as he finally drew his fingers free, and paused long enough to make Jack groan in protest at this fresh emptiness, and then oh God he'd _dreamt_ of this, hadn't he, this push and stretch (for though Shaftoe'd been robbed of _length_ , what remained was broad and hard) and Shaftoe's face next to his own, twisted as though with bitter torment and deprivation, Shaftoe's cry as he pushed in, and ... and that was all, and Jack bit back the "More!" he wanted to demand, for Shaftoe _had_ no more, and Jack would not let Shaftoe suffer, would not cause him, one more moment of hurt; and anyway Shaftoe was fucking him, not deep enough but hard, and then oh then there _was_ more, and the shock of it amazed Jack for a moment until he felt the tightness and the stretch of his body around this new invasion, and realised that what he felt there, _there_ , was the tip of Shaftoe's finger, pushing into Jack next to Shaftoe's hammering half-cock, reaching deep inside and filling him, fucking him, enough, too much.


End file.
